


The Four Dances

by MeganOfSaints



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Biblical References, Biblical Reinterpretation, Body Horror, Body Image, Cute, Dating, Death, Demons, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasy AU, Female Protagonist, Female Steve Rogers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Gossip, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Jealousy, Kissing, Minor Character Death, Monogamy, POV Female Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Romance, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Scars, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Steve Rogers-centric, Stucky - Freeform, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Victorian Attitudes, courting, genderbent au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7583653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeganOfSaints/pseuds/MeganOfSaints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human kind cannot obtain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. When an opportunity to heal her ailing brother greets her, Stephanie Rogers wastes no time. But the four strangers who are more than they appear have plans for her and shouldn't be trusted. When James Buchanan Barnes, a prominent public figure and wealthy Duke, starts to pursue her, she is caught between her love for her brother and her love for James. Dark forces haunt both her past and her future and Stephanie has to learn to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All Rights Reserved 
> 
> No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without expressed written consent from the author.

**Chapter 1: England 1840**

The cobblestone streets were heavily soaked with rain. It seemed to enter every crevice, every corner in the quiet nighttime town. The soft patter of water on the roofs allowed for a sense of calm to fall on the town, and it certainly allowed time for people to think. The rain seemed to have a soporific effect, especially if one is indoors. If it had been earlier, people would have run for cover in this unexpected rain. However, at this late hour, no one expected the rain to stop anytime soon in the quiet London town. The cold, north wind spun through both the homes and the trees, crying to no one in particular.

A man of stocky proportions stepped out from under an awning, allowing the rain to immerse him. In a matter of minutes, his cloak and jacket were heavy with water. He grumbled as he realized the thick knit of the wool would hold the water for days after. The cane he carried under him barely held him upright in wet weather. He struggled from cover to cover, unable to move fast enough toward the dry two-story townhouse. The building was old – shabby really – with peeling paint and rusted door hinges. Another man walked next to him, looking up at the old building that severely needed new paint. The second man was taller and powerfully built with a chest like a barrel and a face like a sculpture. He carried an umbrella and carelessly held it under one arm. 

The stocky man grumbled, “When you said you’d bring an umbrella, I thought you’d actually use it.”

The second man laughed, “Nick, we must play our part. If we show up dry as a bone, he’ll never open the door.”

Nick grumbled and continued on his treacherous path, waiting at any moment for the cane to slide out from under his grasp. The pair marched up to the door and knocked four times on the center panel of the door.

A rugged man in his late forties answered the door, “Hello gentlemen, can I be of service to you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Nick said, bringing his cane around to the front so that he could lean on it, “We just be out for a drink and lost track of the clock. And in all this damn rain, we can’t find our way home. Could you point us in the direction of Cypress Street?”

The man’s face dropped and he stumbled back into the hallway, tripping as he did and ended up sprawled across the stairs. Nick said, “Clint, be a dear and shut the door. This could get ugly.”

Clint promptly followed Nick into the house and slammed the door closed. The man splayed across the stairs jumped up and hissed out a small, “Shhhh.”

Nick glared at the rugged man, sizing him up and down, “I assume from the nightgown you are wearing and the slippers you just tripped over, you were just going to bed. Now, I could also assume that you are aware of why we are here and I should also assume that your wife doesn’t know. Get in the living room.”

“What?” The man frowned, slightly put off.

Nick pointed the cane at the man’s chest and bared down slightly, “From the bags under your eyes I could also assume that your wife just had a child. However, your bags are nearly halfway down your face which makes me assume that you are the one to put it to bed. That is interesting as that is the job of the wet nurse and not a man’s job. However, from the exterior of your home, I can conclude that you are not a rich man and cannot hire any household staff. And with your lack of money, you cannot control your wife and therefore, you are the one to put your child to sleep as she frolics her way into the bed of another man this very—“

Clint cleared his throat, “Perhaps you should lean off your cane; you’re cracking his sternum.”

Nick let his cane drop to the floor as the man sank into the couch of the living room, wondering how on earth he has arrived in the living room when he had been out in the hall not two minutes earlier. Nick sat down across from him while Clint meandered over to the bottle of brandy in the glass vial on the table.

It was silent for a moment as the two men stared at each other. The only noise heard was the clinking of glass against another as Clint poured himself a drink.

Nick leaned forward and rested his cane against the couch, “Now, Mr. Whitlock, we can have a chat.”

“Please, I know what you’re here for. I’ll give you anything. Money…”

“From the state of your house, I think we both know that it is not enough.”

“Tapestry then! My wife makes the finest scenes in all of England.”

“And the way she hangs them all over the house, I’d say she was more proud of her own work than the man she is married too.”

Mr. Whitlock hung his head as he said, “Please, I can’t leave Benjamin.”

“I’m sorry, who?” Nick frowned.      

“My son, the babe you were speaking of eerily not five minutes ago.”

“Ah yes, well, in our line of business, it’s just collateral damage.”

“I’m sorry, are you threatening to kill me?”

“Oh no. Why would I kill a dead man?” Nick stood and leaned over Mr. Whitlock. He paled, the blood leaving his face entirely.

“You’re monsters.” Mr. Whitlock’s gaze flickered from Clint’s to Nick’s in a matter of seconds.

Clint shrugged, “Not an uncommon thing we’ve been called. And certainly not the worst, Nick, what did that woman from London call us before we took her?”

“I believe I remember something about a beehive and my mother’s—“

Mr. Whitlock shouted, “I refuse.”

Nick and Clint looked at each other, knowing this moment would come. Most of the time, they were all the same. Sniveling over their petty lives and how they wanted something better. However, from the time they made their deal, they knew their fate. It was a matter of accepting it or ignoring it until it came to bite you in the arse. They always begged they must an exception to the rule. Clint said, “Before you say any more about your ridiculous refusal, we require something that was agreed upon when you made your deal.”

Mr. Whitlock smiled for the first time since the two men stepped through his door. Moving cautiously around the room, he opened the safe in the corner and produced a leather-bound journal. Gingerly, he handed the book to the shorter of the two men. Ten years and this is what he’d been reduced to. Making deals with the devil and doing his dirty work too.

Nick held out the book, “And everything is in here?”

“Everything and everything that the Rogers' siblings have ever done in the past ten years.”

Clint took the book out of his superior’s hands and filed through it quickly, “He who serves well secured a good standing for himself. I’m sure if something isn’t right, we know where to find you.”

Mr. Whitlock shivered.

Clint’s lips twitched with another smile, “Well, Mr. Whitlock, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”

“No. You cheaters! I still have two weeks.”

“Did you not make your deal on the fourth day of March ten years ago Mr. Whitlock?” Clint said, approaching the man. A shadow, something like death seemed to ooze from him. Mr. Whitlock couldn’t place nor describe the entity that stood before him. He wasn’t a man or a wraith, he was something in between. And only now did he recognize the two blades in his hands. Both were short, like tiny replicas of massive broadswords. And the metal was as black as night. Mr. Whitlock suddenly wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

“I did.” He answered as Clint drew himself up further as if he was taller with every breath.

“And did you not ask for a healthy spine so that you could afford your wages and…how did you put it?” Clint’s mouth tilted into a mischievous smile, “Love a woman like a proper man?” He turned to Nick and said as a side comment, “I swear, they keep getting dumber as the years pass.”

Nick took his cane from the couch and turned the head of the cane one hundred degrees to the right, and with a sharp smack to the top, deployed a small dagger at the end of the cane. Mr. Whitlock nearly tripped over the couch as he held out a hand,

“Wait! WAIT! Can’t I at least say goodbye to my son?”

“You’ve had two months to do that. Mr. Whitlock, you cannot simply apologize, pack up your stuff and leave. Oh no, when you invite death to you, he’s come to stay.”

Clint, taking the man’s arm and promptly twisting it out of reach, allowed a small smirk to play on his face as the man screamed in pain.

“Do stay still Mr. Whitlock, it hurts less if you don't move.”

In the morning, the authorities would be called when a startled Mrs. Whitlock returns home from her ‘night out with the girls’. She would rush to her husband’s side and almost slide on the blood pooling in the carpet. The blood would be a repulsive shade of brown when she reaches his side and would most likely wake up her son from her screaming. When the police arrived, she gave them a lot of information, but she never knew about the two men who seemingly strode into their home and left no trace of themselves afterward. It’s as if they disappeared.


	2. England 1853

**Chapter 2: England 1853 - Present**

The morning paper crumpled onto the table between the five women gathered for tea. Its latest gossip column had been read and another plate of cookies had been set out by a stringent looking kitchen maid. On the front page, pictures of soldiers standing at attention covered half the page, and a raging article by some well-known journalist sat with it. Stephanie Rogers rarely glanced at politics and decided that the article was not worth her time.

The eldest of the group, Countess Darcy Kensington, reached for another cookie. An act that was tauntingly discouraged by Lady Jane, who had a close relationship to the Countess and was also in her second trimester.

Sitting next to the Lady Jane was the Marchioness of Trent, named after the Queen herself. Victoria Westerhouse was an elegant woman and the host of their little tea party. She was a woman in her late thirties, married to the second son of Duke Anderson. The daisy floral print on her dress fluttered in the afternoon breeze. The large outdoor patio was swept of the remaining leaves in the fall season. It was getting colder and the sunlight dwindled on the tree line, flirting with the leaves in its last moments of light.

Stephanie Rogers sat with her hands in lap, her delicate hands holding a tea cup. She attempted to keep up with the quiet banter of the women in front of her. However, she found her eyes sweeping out over the grounds. The bushes were not yet trimmed for the upcoming winter months and the roses were drooping, but not ugly enough to trim away. The trees, which surrounded the large estate, were splattered in hues of orange, red and yellow. Fall still clung to too many parts of the country, unwilling to let go of the crisp air and warm sunny rays.

She fiddled with the lace just under the edge of her saucer, attached to her very ostentatious dress. The color was too bright for the fall months. At this time, most women wore deep navy dresses. She set down the teacup, her stomach aching from the copious amount of tea cookies she had ingested. The Duchess of Nottingham, a strong woman from France, sat next to her and asked,

“How fares your son Victoria?”

“Oh! Fabulously. He’s top of his class at Oxford. As I should expect. His father and I didn’t raise him to be a dud.”

“And what about that scholarship to America you were talking about earlier?” Lady Jane asked, setting her empty teacup down on the table.

“He’s told me that he wishes to go, but I think he doesn’t.”

“Oh, and why not?” The Duchess asked.

Victoria lowered her voice and leaned in, exciting the women at the table. She said, “I think he’s found a girl.”

“Oh!” Five other voices exclaimed, including Stephanie. She’d known the Marquis of Trent was a scholar and a gifted one as well, but she’d never peg him for a man whom would be able to land a woman. His arrogance and pride of his brilliant mind would seem like a deterrent from finding a suitable woman. However, his wealth certainly aided his attempt.

Victoria smirked, knowing she’d hooked her attendants, “He’ll never speak of it, but I think it’s true. He acts just how my husband did when he met me.”

“How romantic!” Lady Jane crooned. Stephanie looked out into the grounds again and sighed. The woman who is drawing his attention was a lucky woman. Not many women were lucky to snatch men who were well educated. However, she wasn’t expecting the conversation to turn towards her.

“How fares your brother Stephanie?”

“He is stable at the moment. The doctor came yesterday to check his fever.”

“Your poor mother. I should send some of my prize marigolds before the season ends.”

She smiled, knowing her mother would love the gift. The Marchioness also turned her attention to Stephanie, looking to have a glint of humor in her eye, “Stephanie, are you staying for the social season?”

“As much as my father would love to return to his prized estate in Milan, my mother wants to introduce my sister this season. So, I look forward to the coming season.”

A mirthful glint entered the eyes sitting around her. It made her slightly uneasy; however, she wasn’t surprised. Her sister, Juliana Rogers had not grown to be a wallflower. Her sister’s face hadn’t known any spots or blemishes. By whispers on the lips of gossipers, her sister was expected to land a husband in her first season. She was too pretty not to catch a few eyes. Stephanie was proud of her sister as if she had raised her from birth and not her mother. Men looked at her, easily smitten by her soft French accent and dainty figure.

“Your sister has been the talk of many men.” Countess Darcy said, a wicked glint in her eyes. She was notorious for spreading anything she had heard to anyone who would listen. She was an aspiring match-maker and found it humorous to place unlikely matches together. Stephanie had been on the losing side of one of Countess Kensington’s attempts.

Stephanie looked down at her dress again, suddenly feeling unadorned. Yes, her sister was beautiful. However, she was privy to men’s advances as well. Her entire family was beautiful. Even her older brother, who was sick and would not be attending this season. Many women fell head over heels for his boyish charm. Stephanie and Juliana thought him impish and boneheaded, but all their friends swooned over her brother.

A knock on the back door revealed her footman, patting a handkerchief at the base of his cravat. “Mistress Stephanie.” He said in a frantic voice, “Your mother sent a rider. It’s your brother Miss.”

Stephanie’s heart ran with ice water as if she had been dumped in a cold bath. With as much grace as she could muster, she looked at the Marchioness and she sent her an apologetic glance. The Marchioness waved it away and said, “Tend to your brother my dear. We all wish for his return to good health.”

She nodded and left her tea, which was already cold and hurried after her footman. The hall to the entrance of the elaborate home seemed to stretch on forever. Stephanie turned to him and asked, “Did my mother elaborate on his condition?”

“No Miss Stephanie. She just sent a rider to fetch you.”

She hoped her mother had sent for her because her brother was recovering and not the other way around. Stephanie desperately hoped that death had not come for her brother so early. Taking the hand to help her into the carriage out front, she waited in silence until the door opened again.

Rushing up the flight of marble stairs, she attempted not to trip and ran past a few maids, carrying towels from her brother’s room. She knocked on her brother’s door and a maid opened it, revealing her brother motionless in his bed and her mother and sister sitting on opposite sides of him.

She almost collapsed in tears. How could she ever hope to believe that her brother would get better? The doctor had practically written him off as dead! Her brother had such a rare disease and no one could figure a way to cure him. She held a hand to her heart and said to her mother, “What has happened?”

“He’s been getting worse since this morning. I wanted my children together…if…if…he…” She never finished her sentence, but dropped her head to her son’s hand and murmured what sounded like prayers against his pale skin. Stephanie walked over and sat next to Juliana, whose light eyeliner was ruined by the tear streaks down her face. Their only care was for their brother, who lay dying in front of them.

The maid rushed in and out of the room, stoking the fire and provided new buckets of warm water for the cloths placed on her brother’s forehead. It was an agonizing hour before the doctor arrived.

While taking her brother’s pulse, watching his breathing and many other strange things, Stephanie sat in the corner wing chair with her sister beside her, talking quietly. Juliana said, “It’s only a matter of time before he cannot breathe anymore.”

Stephanie shook her head, “Mama would not let him go so easily. She wouldn’t want any of us to leave this life so early. She will fight to save his life.”

“May heaven have mercy on his soul when he meets her in the afterlife.”

Stephanie smiled slightly. She knew her mother would not allow her brother to leave her so soon, without grandchildren or without a smile. From across the room, her brother coughed and sputtered, his eyes opening weakly.

“Mother…” He said, grasping her hand so weakly that it brought new tears to her eyes.

“Yes, my child?” She said.

“Please tell Father that he should not be disappointed in me…” He rasped out the last few words as if he lost his breath.

Her mother shook her head violently, “No my son! You were never a disappointment.”

“Good…” He smiled slightly, bringing more tears to her mother’s eyes. Juliana watched with a tortured look on her face. She said, “Brother! You must make it through one more season. I’ve heard gossip that Katherine of Thrace has her eye on you.”

Stephanie turned her face to her sister, knowing she was leading him on to live. To have something to hold onto, to look forward to. Her brother cursed under his breath and started coughing. The doctor hurriedly injected a sedative into his veins. It’s what kept him from thrashing in his sleep.

The doctor turned to the sisters and said, “He will be resting soon. You might as well let him sleep.”

Stephanie’s mother was difficult to get out of the room, to tear herself away from her dying son. Juliana followed afterward, brushing her fingers against her brother’s hand. Stephanie stopped next to the bed, watching her brother fight the sedative in his body. Death had come for him once, and he had escaped then. Now, death had come back a second time and it would take a miracle for it to happen again.

The door suddenly clicked shut as she turned to look at her brother. His eyes watched her carefully as she said, “How are you truly feeling?”

He grunted as he attempted to turn his arm over. She watched in horrified fascination as his arm seemed to expose every vein in his arm. Each one was a dark blue hue and spiraled up his arm, and into his chest. She sat down in the chair to the right of his bed and fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

He said, “Baby sister. Do not fear for my death. We both know that death and I are close friends by now.”

Stephanie took her brother’s hand and reveled in the cool temperature of his fingers. She said, “Theo, you are always here for me. I promise you, I will find a way to make you better.”

He shook his head as if he was trying to ward off her promise, “You cannot change the inevitable.”

She was angry now. Why would he give up so easily? “Don’t you dare lose hope, Theo! You’re already breaking mama’s heart.”

Theo’s eyes turned hazy as if he was acutely aware of the affect his condition had on his mother’s sleeping and eating habits. Stephanie rubbed her brother’s knuckles, swallowing the bile in the back of her throat, “I will heal you. I will travel to the edge of the world if I must. Promise me you will not give up. Promise me.”

“Stephanie…” He coughed, his eyes pained.

“Promise me!” She cried wildly, not ready to give up her brother. He avoided her eyes and said,

“Sister, you of all people should know not to make promises you cannot keep.”

“You idiot.” She cried, releasing his hand and exiting the door, closing it roughly behind her. Once in the hall and all alone, she covered her mouth with her hand and sobbed. Closing her eyes, she willed the tears from her eyes, as if they would take her worries with them. Her cheeks stayed damp for minutes, her salty tears gathering upon her upper lip before falling to the ground. Her skin stung from trying to wipe them away constantly.

“Miss Stephanie?” A familiar voice spoke to her. She glanced over to see Father Peter standing in front of her brother’s door, a hand on the door as if he was about to go in but stopped when he saw her.

She wiped her red eyes one last time and collected herself before saying with a quivering voice, “Yes Father?”

He looked worried, “Do not tell me that I am too late to pray for him.”

She looked to the ceiling briefly, as if gravity would aid in her ability to chase her tears away. She shook her head, leveling her gaze at Father Peter and said, “No, the doctor gave him a sedative. He is probably already asleep by now.”

He nodded and opened the door. He smiled at her, a kind and sympathetic smile, “Would you like to join me in prayer?”

She nodded, finding comfort in his presence. Since her sister’s birth had been a difficult one, Father Peter had been a close friend of the family. She and Juliana were both taught occasionally by Father Peter when their tutor was ill.

She closed the door behind them and waited silently as Father Peter watched over her brother’s sleeping form. He placed his fingers over her brother’s brow and closed his eyes, bowing his head as if uttering a silent prayer. He then looked at her and said, “Join me, my dear.”

Stephanie took his outstretched hand and held her sleeping brother’s hand while Father Peter whispered prayers. She stood there, the only sounds being the hushed prayers and the clock ticking. It was the only noise that accompanied her brother’s sickness. It was a malicious force, constantly mocking her brother’s time in this world. Not one prayer slipped into her conscious mind. She merely stared at his comatose form and attempted to remember everything about him.

Father Peter’s whispers ceased and it was quiet for a pregnant moment. He suddenly turned to her, his black clothing brushing against the bright cloth of her dress. His eyes gleamed with hope as he smiled, “There may be a way to save your brother.”

She swore the candles all flickered for a moment as she said, with blatant curiosity, “How?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have a comment kink that you can totally fulfill right now. :) I look forward to seeing you in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I wanted to try something a little different from my usual smutty stories. Let me know in the comments if you loved it, or if you found something that needs to be fixed. I'll see you guys in the next chapter!


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